


The Definition of "Rescue", "Small", and "Helpless"

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2015 [12]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Adopted Children, Adoption, Advent Calendar Drabble, Gen, slightly more biographical than actually intended
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 04:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5402453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started the first time she left the house with the baby in his pram.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Definition of "Rescue", "Small", and "Helpless"

**Author's Note:**

> Day Twelve of the Advent Calendar Drabbles for 2015. Today's prompt was from stress_kitten, whose full request was "rescue of a small, helpless animal", my choice of fandom. I know this isn't what she meant, and I hope she doesn't mind that I've taken this particular turn with it.
> 
> I should probably note that everything said to Donna has been said to me at one point or another since adopting my two children. Well, with the exception of the potato comment. Sometimes, it's harder to take that grain of salt than I'd like.

The Doctor still looked skeptical.

 

“Donna,” he said for the 367th time, both hands on her shoulders and bending down a bit to look squarely in her eyes, the way he always did when he wanted to convey a sense of urgency and consideration.  “Are you ab-so-lute-ly _certain_ —?”

 

“Shut up,” said Donna, holding the bundle in her arms securely.  “I couldn’t very well _leave_ him there.”

 

“But—“

 

“Come visit at Christmas,” said Donna, and marched out of the TARDIS, and into her new life….

 

As a mother.

 

*

 

It started the first time she left the house with the baby in his pram.

 

“Oh, Donna,” gushed Patsy Reynolds from down the street.  “I’d heard you adopted, how lovely!  Can I see him?”

 

“Of course,” said Donna proudly, and removed the blanket that covered the pram.

 

Patsy’s smile wavered a little bit, but then came back, forceful and falsely cheerful.  “He’s… lovely.  Where’s he from?”

 

“Sontar,” said Donna.

 

“Is that up North?”

 

“Sure,” said Donna, because surely all planets had a north.

 

“But where are his _people_ from, dear?” persisted Patsy.

 

Donna stared at Patsy for a long moment.

 

“Sweden,” said Donna flatly.

 

*

 

“What’s his name?” Frank the butcher wanted to know.

 

“Steven,” said Donna as she took the package of bacon.

 

“Good name.  I’m sure he’ll stop looking like a potato eventually.”

 

*

 

Then there were the people who thought he was Donna’s by birth, which even Donna had to admit didn’t make much sense when one looked at the two of them together.

 

Considering that Steven was… well… an _alien_.

 

“He’s got your bone structure,” said Mavis Jenkins from the grocer’s, and Donna had to give her credit for trying.

 

“What does his father look like?” asked little old Mrs. Fitzwilliam from the church.

 

“No idea,” said Donna cheerfully, and enjoyed the look of shock on poor old little Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s face.

 

*

 

Then there was the _other_ theme.

 

Donna never quite knew what she was supposed to _say_.

 

“God will bless you for saving that child,” said Pastor Dave, patting Donna on the arm, while Steven was busy crawling around the nursery, terrorizing the other babies.

 

“That’s nice,” said Donna distractedly, and she leaned over to pluck something out of Steven’s mouth.  “No, Steven, we don’t chew on mobile phones.”

 

“Such a wonderful thing you did, rescuing that baby,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who had finally been informed of Steven’s origins.  (Sort of.)

 

“Mmm,” said Donna, and leaned over to pluck something out of Steven’s mouth.  “No, Steven, we don’t chew on shoes.”

 

“You surely did a wonderful, selfless thing in saving that child,” said Polly Duncan at the beauty parlor. 

 

“Right,” said Donna, and leaned over to pluck something out of Steven’s mouth.  “No, Steven, we don’t chew on curling irons.”

 

“I’ll pray for you,” said Polly fervently.

 

Donna gave up and let Steven continue sharpening his teeth on the iron.  “Thanks.”

 

*

 

As Steven got older – the comments became a bit more intrusive.

 

 

“Donna,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam worriedly, “do you know anything about his real parents?”

 

“ _I’m_ Steven’s real mother, Mrs. Fitzwilliam,” said Donna pointedly.  “At least I’m the one changing his very real diapers.”

 

“I mean his _other_ parents, dear,” chided Mrs. Fitzwilliams, as if Donna was the one who needed correcting.

 

Donna tried not to bristle.  “I know as much about his _birth parents_ as the adoption agency was able to tell me.”

 

“Well… do you know if they drank?  Or took drugs?”

 

Donna stared at her, for once in her life, unable to speak, but fairly certain the heat from her gaze would serve its purpose.

 

Then again, Mrs. Fitzwilliam _was_ half blind.

 

(No, really; she had the medical papers and triple-thick glasses that she wore around her neck to prove it.)

 

“Were they very poor?” asked Paul the bank teller.

 

“That depends on whether or not they had you miscounting out their deposit every week, Paul,” said Donna.  “Steven, put down that chair, please.”

 

“Were they very young?” asked Miss Henry, Donna’s Year Two schoolteacher.

 

“Most birthparents are older, actually, Miss Henry,” explained Donna, because sometimes it was easier to answer with general facts instead of personal ones.  “Teenage parents tend to raise the children themselves with help from family.”

 

“So why did they give him up?” asked Reina Macmillian bluntly on the playground, as Steven howled with glee – or maybe territorial rights – on the swings.

 

“We don’t say _give up_ , Reina,” said Donna, because it was the only answer she could give that didn’t involve ripping Reina’s head off.  Steven might have enjoyed the display; the other children, not so much.  “We say _placed for adoption_.”

 

 

 

*

 

But mostly, people meant well. 

 

“Biracial children are always so beautiful,” said the nurses at the pediatrician’s office as Steven glared at the other children until they let him change the channel to a nature show instead of CBeebies.

 

“He certainly has your temper,” chortled the pediatrician as Steven yowled after his immunizations, and nearly tore down the curtains on the windows.

 

“You’ve done a commendable job with him,” said the policeman as Steven tackled the pickpocket at the shopping center and sat on him until help arrived.

 

Donna looked at her son, who was proudly gnawing on the coat he’d torn off the pickpocket in his fury to tackle him.  The pickpocket still looked scared, even from the relative safety of the police car on the other side of the street.

 

Steven looked up at Donna, and grinned.

 

Donna grinned back.

 

“Yes,” said Donna, proud as punch and happy to say it, “I have.”

 


End file.
